He wanted to take her. In the cold. On the cliff. He wanted to become a part of her and make her a part of him. The violence of that need rocked him.

'Not here! Not now!'

The voice of reason? Or the voice of conscience? Whatever it was intruded, made him step back before he hurled both of them into an abyss of betrayal and tragedy.

"No," she protested.

He tipped her chin up until their gazes met.

"We cannot," he said. "If it were just the two of us--"

But even then he knew he could not allow this. Two wives dead. His mother dead within a year of her marriage. Patrick's within three. Lachlan's mother died in childbirth. His father had become a bitter man, blaming the Campbells and having nothing in his heart but hatred. Certainly there had been no warmth.

Only the one rule: Kill Campbells.

And he had followed that rule.

If she knew ...

He took another step back. Why had he brought her here?

Because he was a fool. Perhaps part of him had believed that by bringing her to the place he had brought Maggie, to the place he had come as a boy, he might clear his head.

Or was he merely excusing inexcusable behavior.

"I am sorry, Felicia. We should not have come here."

"Why?"

He had to hurt her. He had to do it for both their sakes.

"I used to bring my wife here." He did not add that he used to laugh at the curse, despite the history of his family. He did not say that he and Maggie were going to prove it meant nothing ...

She bit her lip. "Did you love her?"

"Aye. I did."

"I am sorry."

He dropped his fist from her chin and turned around. He could no longer meet those wide blue eyes. She was obviously willing to risk everything for him.

He could not do the same. Nor would she want that if she knew everything.

"We should go back," he said.

Neither moved, though. Instead the wind moaned, and the sea below them crashed against its barrier.

She reached out and touched the side of his face, an expression of yearning crossing her face.

Then she stepped away and turned toward the horses.

He followed her and helped her mount, feeling the warmth once more. The connection. The fire.

He released her quickly and strode to his own horse. He mounted and, without looking at her, walked the horse back to the main road. He sensed more than saw that she was following him.

But he knew that while he could avoid glancing her way now, he could never remove the image of her wistful expression as he turned away from her.

*Chapter 20*

Felicia rode back to the keep, her gaze fastened on the stiff, tense shoulders of the man riding beside her.

It was not hard to realize that he regretted the ride, and regretted the kiss even more.

She did not. It had been a moment she would always remember.

She knew nothing could come of it. The one thing she had discovered about Rory Maclean was his sense of honor. She saw him battling it. And it was hurting him. More than hurting him. She feared it was destroying him.

At the same time, she felt stronger. For most of her life, she'd felt like little more than a poor relation, and then more recently, like nothing more than a pawn. But now people valued her. Some even valued her after knowing she was a member of an enemy clan.

And she'd had moments of magic that would light the remainder of her life, even if she had nothing more. Even now she was still comforted by the warmth that had so briefly enveloped them, with the attraction that was a live, wonderful thing between them.

She still tasted him. She still felt him as she'd leaned into his body. She would always remember, and treasure, the fire and the passion, and a windswept eve by the Sound of Mull.

Lachlan sauntered to the Campbell's room, a flagon with him along with a blanket.

The guard was standing outside the room.

Lachlan stopped. "My brother sent me to ask him questions," he said.

The Maclean soldier nodded.

"I thought a little wine might loosen his tongue."

" 'Tis too good for the likes of a Campbell." The guard gazed at the blanket in Lachlan's hand. "He no' need no coddling. Should ha' left him in the dungeon."

"Aye, I agree. But my brother thinks otherwise."

The guard frowned but obviously struggled to hold his tongue. His life and livelihood depended on the goodwill of the laird.

Lachlan held out the flagon. "Would you like a dram or two?"

The man looked thirstily at the flagon. Lachlan could tell what he was thinking. He was being offered a taste by the brother of the laird. No harm done in taking a sip. Or two.

"Thank ye," he said and lifted the flagon. He took a long swallow, then another before handing it back.

Lachlan opened the door, stepped in, and closed the door behind him.

The Campbell was lying on the bed but sprang quickly to his feet. He'd obviously been waiting, and none too patiently.

He straightened. "What time is it?"

Lachlan placed the blanket on the table. "An hour or so before dawn. There is no way to open the gates before then."

"I saw two riders last night. One was my cousin."

"Aye. She wanted to go for a ride. My brother accompanied her."

"At night?" the Campbell growled.

Lachlan shrugged. "He was going for his usual ride. Lady Felicia wished to accompany him."

Lachlan saw the angry rise in the Campbell's face. "He should not think about playing with my cousin."

"My brother is not dishonorable," Lachlan said, praying with all his remaining soul that it was true. There was something between Rory and Felicia Campbell that was like dry tinder in a forest. The merest spark could create a conflagration that could destroy everything, and everyone, in its path. 'It is not your concern. It is Rory's. And only Rory's.'

But was it?

Not now. Nothing was important now other than the immediate problem. Getting out of Inverleith.

"I gave the man outside some wine," Lachlan said, turning away concerns that both he and apparently the Campbell had. "He should be asleep soon."

"And then?"

"And then you will change clothes." Lachlan opened the blanket and took out a plaid of Maclean dyes. "You will wear this."

A momentary rebellion crossed the Campbell's face.

"It is the only way to leave Inverleith," Lachlan said.

Without another word, Jamie discarded what he was wearing down to his small clothes, then with some distaste, started the process of winding the long plaid around his body, finally clasping it around his waste with a belt. "I need my dirk returned," he said.

"Not until we leave the Inverleith gates," Lachlan said.

"Trust is a wondrous thing."

"So is caution."

The Campbell's gaze met his. "I asked for your brother's pledge that my cousin would not be harmed. I want yours as well, and not only her physical well-being." The words were a very clear warning.

"No one here would want an alliance with a Campbell," Lachlan replied in a soft voice. "Nor do they want a war with your clan."

"That is not want I mean. They are attracted to each other. I noticed that immediately. I also know my cousin. Forbid something, and she will stand first to do it."

"My brother has pledged not to marry again."

The Campbell looked startled at the word 'marry'. "I did not mean marriage. It would be impossible."

Lachlan considered the statement. It was impossible at the moment. But if the Campbell and he succeeded ...

"No," Jamie said, obviously reading his thoughts. "It will take decades to make any union between Campbells and Macleans acceptable to the clans."

Lachlan rose and walked over to the window. The black of night would soon turn to the soft gray of dawn. It would not be long before they would leave. He thought about the message he would carry with him. A message to the captain of Rory's ship. That he carried it at all represented Rory's uncertainty over the success of this mission.

He opened the door. The guard was on the floor, his back leaning against the wall.

Lachlan pulled the guard inside and laid him on the bed, then glanced at the Campbell. "Come with me."

He led the way to his chamber just several doors down.

"My hair?"

"Use ashes from the fireplace. And hurry. I do not want anyone to find the guard until we leave."

The Campbell picked up a pile of ashes from the fireplace. "Do you never clean a fireplace?" he asked, his disapproval obvious.

"Then what would we do for disguise?" Lachlan retorted with a shrug. "This was a lesson your cousin taught us."

"She would," the Campbell muttered.

But soon he was finished. His hands black with ash, as was his golden hair.

"Your boots are too fine," Lachlan said as he handed the Campbell a pair of brogues.

The Campbell looked rebellious. "I like those boots."

"Enough to stay here?"

The Campbell glared at him, then sat down and reluctantly pulled off his boots.

Lachlan packed the Campbell's garments and boots in a saddlebag.

He handed him a helmet, which covered most of the Campbell's hair. "You will keep your eyes lowered as you follow me. I have already ordered two horses made ready for us. You are to relieve one of the border guards."

"Will they not know everyone?"

"We have a number of men from outside the keep. For their safety and their families'."

'Safety from Campbells.'

Lachlan did not have to say the words. The understanding was in the Campbell's eyes. But there was no apology, either. No hint of regret.

They could never be friends.